


The ability to control one's emotions and desires or the expression of them in one's behavior

by AnnaAalora



Series: Life in Another World [4]
Category: Another World | Out of this World (Video Game)
Genre: Alien/Human Relationships, I feel like something like this would happen to Lester at some point, M/M, POV Second Person, Romantic Friendship, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-22 20:10:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8299067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaAalora/pseuds/AnnaAalora
Summary: The pulsating, prickling sensation grows in time with your heartbeat, and you fold your arms lightly across your chest for lack of a proper response to the situation.





	

The muggy air settles thickly in your lungs and stays there. Your limbs feel leaden, and your eyes tender and swollen. Moving minimal parts of your body, you pluck despondently at the scraps scattered over the low table, making patterns with the peels and seeds until the table is covered in swirls and your interest fades away. You twist back and forth to shake off your drowsiness in air that feels as dense as water.

Queasiness blooms in the hollow of your stomach at the smell of the food cooking across the room. You prop your chin in one hand, every clang and crackle over by the fireplace making you jump a little in your half asleep state. You tug at your sweat sticky clothes for a moment’s relief, but they settle back and cling to you more than ever. Irritably, you turn to look out one of the windows. Right now you long for a breathe of fresh air more than anything else, and a memory comes to mind, when you would open all the windows in your old apartment after it rained, bringing in the breeze and the sent of damp earth and asphalt. Misery rises up in your throat with enough force to choke you and you drop your eyes back to the table. Then, to your dismay, it dawns on you that the term for what is rising in your throat would better be described as nausea. It curls out of your throat along with your sadness, and you know you need fresh air or will risk being sick all over the floor.

You bite back a groan the same time your friend throws more fuel into the fire with a loud clatter. He has his back to you, engrossed in nudging bundles of fuel into the center of the flames, and stirring the contents of the pot over the flames. You twitch in his direction, but your stomach twists and you know that you wouldn’t have time to communicate the problem before the end result made itself known. Coughing a little, you use the table to push yourself to your feet, white spots dancing in front of your eyes. The effort it takes you to lurch out the door is heroic, but the gust of wind that greets you the moment the door closes behind you makes the endeavor worth every step. 

Outside, you breathe slowly and deeply, each breath reviving you a bit. The door is cold and soothing against your back as you tilt your face up to the clouds, green and grey and swirling. There is a deep rumble in the distance, and a little smile grows on your lips as raindrops start sprinkling over the dry earth. You move away from the archway of the door and hold your hands out, sticky with orange and white sap from the plants you spent the day shelling, and let the increasingly fat raindrops drip from your palms and fingers. The soft rain gradually becomes a downpour, and soon your bangs are plastered to your forehead in wet curls. Not wanting to go back inside yet, you move around to the back of the house where there is a small covered area, and work your fingers through your hair until it is just damp instead of dripping. After, you sit on the ground, and watch the small rivers of water creating little interdependent trails on dirt and stone. 

While the nausea has mostly faded, your hands give a throb, and then another one, pulsing out from palms to fingertips. You look down and are dismayed to see irritated and raw patches all over your hands. Profanity fills your thoughts while you flex your fingers, trying to gauge the extent of the damage, and then your neck prickles with the same sensation as your hands. You make a sound in your throat when you remember touching your face earlier, and the pulsating, prickling sensation grows in time with your heartbeat. You fold your arms lightly across your chest for lack of a proper response to the situation, and just as quickly unfold them loosely to your sides. You don’t have much of a chance to think about how you want to handle this before the back door opens and the hot, pungent air fills the space around you. Despite how smell doesn’t linger long in the cold, it is still enough time for you start gagging. You clap a hand firmly over your mouth, but the scent of the remaining sap on your fingers pushes you over the edge, and you spend the next few minutes miserably dry heaving on your hand and knees. 

When the worst dwindles down to a few spasms and coughs, your friend kneels beside you and starts rubbing your back. The contact is not unwelcome, but you have yet to recover your composure. You turn your head to the wall and squeeze your eyes shut, dizzy with humiliation. If your actions come off as childish, you don’t care. Your friend offers no commentary, and continues rubbing soft circles between your shoulders, content to simply be a presence for now. When you shift back to lean against the wall, he moves with you, and the two of you sit quietly together and listen to the rain drip off the stone structures. You mulishly think you’d rather sit out all night than go back inside, and then immediately feel ashamed at the thought. Since your friend doesn’t try to usher you back inside or make you interact with him, you take a few more minutes to gather yourself before angling your body in his direction. He mimics your actions, taking on an expectant air that bleeds into the space around you. At a loss for what else to do, you offer your hands up to his gaze while keeping your eyes firmly fixed on the ground. 

He says something, some kind of exclamation, and grabs your wrists; you slide a bit along the ground as he pulls you closer to him. He almost has his face pressed into your palms, and you shift a little more to accommodate him. You watch him press his thumbs over the irritated skin with a look of befuddlement, and before you have time to react, he grabs your shoulders and pulls you to your feet in one fluid motion. You are left groping at his forearms to regain your equilibrium, and he uses the opportunity to take a hold of your grasping hands in his and pull you back inside. You instinctively dig in your heels, for all the good it does you, and he spares you a brief look of confusion, before moving you along with a hand on the small of your back.

As you had known would happen, the two of you barely make it over the threshold before the smell and nausea slams back into you. The sound of the noise you make surprises your friend enough that you can wrench yourself out of his grip and back out into the cold, desperately pressing your hand to your mouth. While you aren’t actually sick this time, to your great relief, the ache in your stomach and throat linger stronger than before.

There is a brief period of silence before you hear footstep behind you, moving away, and you let your hands slide away from your face, still touching your mouth with your fingertips, until you remember there is still sap on your hands. You moves farther away from the house, and gingerly lower yourself back down the ground you have become so well acquainted. You sit there, looking down and sour taste in your mouth, until you hear the footsteps return to you.

Your friend lowers himself down next and hands, you something, a cup of water, and it washes away the worst of the aftertaste. He lets you take your time with it, but when you have finished, he gestures for you to hold your hands up. You do, and he starts dabbing at your hands with a damp cloth, smelling of something herbal and fresh. As he works, you close your eyes and listen to his breathing. There is still an unnatural pulsing in the irritated portion of your skin, but you feel soothed by the matter being attended to regardless of whether or not the ointment works. 

By the time he seems satisfied with what he has done, the rain has stopped entirely, the smell of wet earth perfuming the air. You find yourself relaxing a bit, and your friend uses a finger to tilt your head up and runs the clothes down your neck, pressing lighting while he peers at the swelling. Without moving your head, you glance at the house, and blink in surprise at how the doors and windows of the house have been left wide open, the fresh air sweeping away the smell of the days work. 

You look forward again as your friend feels your forehead, gently holding your face and your gaze. You stare back; there are certain elements of the way he is looking at you aren’t unfamiliar with, but there always seems to be a level of tenderness present that you wouldn’t know how to respond to even if the two of you shared a common language. When he puts the cloth down, he is still holding you to face him, and a moment of something passes between the two of you. It could have lasted a single second or whole lifetime for all you know, but when he breaks the eye contact, the depth of your disappointment is staggering. Swallowing hard, you turn so you are sitting side by side, and lean your head against his arm. You count the heartbeats, before he reciprocates by wrapping an arm around you and stroking your hair. Eventually the rain starts up again, and when the two of you finally find your way back inside, you are the one leading the way.


End file.
